She came Friday afternoon, 2:21 pm. She was 7 pounds, 9 ounces and 19 inches long. She's just the sweetest, most beautiful thing ever.
You can also see some pictures at http://gallery.me.com/rcjrmassey#100036
I'll post some more latter.
Showing posts with label My little girl. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My little girl. Show all posts
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Welcome, Erica Jean
She came Friday afternoon, 2:21 pm. She was 7 pounds, 9 ounces and 19 inches long. She's just the sweetest, most beautiful thing ever.
You can also see some pictures at http://gallery.me.com/rcjrmassey#100036
I'll post some more latter.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
This is the First Day of the Rest of My Life
When I was in the middle school, one of my teachers (I think it was my 7th grade English teacher Ms. Riettinger, but I'm not sure) has a poster on the wall with Garfield hanging from chains in a dungeon that said in big letters at the bottom, "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." It took me a while to get it, but I eventually got it. Another way to put it is "What's past is prologue." But what it basically means is that the past is gone and the future is what is left.
Well, as I type this it's 12:05 on Friday, August 22, 2008, and today really is the first day of the rest of my life.
My parents are here and my sister is coming. I was watching the weather and it's supposed to be warm with possible showers. Olympic baseball is on while the local news is going in between Olympic coverage and I can't sleep. It reminds me of when I was a kid and it was the night before Christmas when all through the house, the only I know of stirring was me. The last few weeks have been long and the wait seemingly forever, but the day has finally arrived and in about 14 hours so will my daughter. From this day forward, everything changes completely.
Man, am I nervous.
Well, as I type this it's 12:05 on Friday, August 22, 2008, and today really is the first day of the rest of my life.
My parents are here and my sister is coming. I was watching the weather and it's supposed to be warm with possible showers. Olympic baseball is on while the local news is going in between Olympic coverage and I can't sleep. It reminds me of when I was a kid and it was the night before Christmas when all through the house, the only I know of stirring was me. The last few weeks have been long and the wait seemingly forever, but the day has finally arrived and in about 14 hours so will my daughter. From this day forward, everything changes completely.
Man, am I nervous.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
A Letter to My Daughter
Saturday, July 19, 2008, 11:50 PM
Dear ________,
I got this idea from another blog that I read sometimes. It’s a little weird to write a letter to someone who isn’t here. Well, you’re “here”, but not here. I mean, when are you ever going to read this? And does posting it on a blog negate the sweetness or the sensitivity that I want to try and convey in this? Probably, but I’m going to write it and post it anyway.
Your mother and I have waited a long time to see you. And not just in the whole almost eight months of your gestation. Four prior, um, attempts(?) and a lot of heart break for your two parents means that you’re coming in with a little bit of pressure. I feel kinda bad for you. I hope it’s not more than you can take. We’ll try not to expect too much from you. I mean, you’re only human. And so is your mom and dad. People have asked me if I’m ready to be a dad. I tell them our first try was almost 5 years ago and I guess I was ready then, so I’m as ready now as I’ll ever be. I think I’m not completely ready because from what I understand the change is my life will be so drastic that I wouldn’t believe it. But with only one month (at the absolute most) to go, we are ready, I guess.
Your room is all ready to go. It’s painted a nice shade of green with pink accents. Your mother loves pink. I hope you don’t grow to hate it. You see, there’s a lot of things we hope. We hope you’re healthy. We hope your arrival comes with a minimum of trauma to you and your mom. We hope you grow and become big and strong and wise and happy. Your mom is great. She’s going to be an awesome mom. She loves you so much. She had to get shots twice a day since the day we found out about you all the way back in December. (Hopefully we won’t hold that over your head.) Your dad loves you too. That’s about the only promise I can make to you. I will do everything I can to make sure that you are safe, healthy, happy and, above all else, loved. Sometimes it hard to show that. I’m probably going to worry alot. Heck, you aren’t even here yet, and I worry. I worry about the future. I worry about you and your mom. I worry about am I going to be a good dad. Am I going to be able to take care of you? Am I going to drive you crazy by worrying to much? Probably. You’ll just have to forgive me. More than anything, I hope that one day when Jesus calls your name, you’ll hear Him and come to Him, and that, somehow, my love for you will have been a picture of His love for you.
You are a special girl who is already loved by lots and lots of people. I can’t wait to meet you.
Love, your dad.
PS. You may have noticed the blank where your name should be. You already have a name, but we aren’t giving it away yet.
Dear ________,
I got this idea from another blog that I read sometimes. It’s a little weird to write a letter to someone who isn’t here. Well, you’re “here”, but not here. I mean, when are you ever going to read this? And does posting it on a blog negate the sweetness or the sensitivity that I want to try and convey in this? Probably, but I’m going to write it and post it anyway.
Your mother and I have waited a long time to see you. And not just in the whole almost eight months of your gestation. Four prior, um, attempts(?) and a lot of heart break for your two parents means that you’re coming in with a little bit of pressure. I feel kinda bad for you. I hope it’s not more than you can take. We’ll try not to expect too much from you. I mean, you’re only human. And so is your mom and dad. People have asked me if I’m ready to be a dad. I tell them our first try was almost 5 years ago and I guess I was ready then, so I’m as ready now as I’ll ever be. I think I’m not completely ready because from what I understand the change is my life will be so drastic that I wouldn’t believe it. But with only one month (at the absolute most) to go, we are ready, I guess.
Your room is all ready to go. It’s painted a nice shade of green with pink accents. Your mother loves pink. I hope you don’t grow to hate it. You see, there’s a lot of things we hope. We hope you’re healthy. We hope your arrival comes with a minimum of trauma to you and your mom. We hope you grow and become big and strong and wise and happy. Your mom is great. She’s going to be an awesome mom. She loves you so much. She had to get shots twice a day since the day we found out about you all the way back in December. (Hopefully we won’t hold that over your head.) Your dad loves you too. That’s about the only promise I can make to you. I will do everything I can to make sure that you are safe, healthy, happy and, above all else, loved. Sometimes it hard to show that. I’m probably going to worry alot. Heck, you aren’t even here yet, and I worry. I worry about the future. I worry about you and your mom. I worry about am I going to be a good dad. Am I going to be able to take care of you? Am I going to drive you crazy by worrying to much? Probably. You’ll just have to forgive me. More than anything, I hope that one day when Jesus calls your name, you’ll hear Him and come to Him, and that, somehow, my love for you will have been a picture of His love for you.
You are a special girl who is already loved by lots and lots of people. I can’t wait to meet you.
Love, your dad.
PS. You may have noticed the blank where your name should be. You already have a name, but we aren’t giving it away yet.
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